I don’t read a lot of thrillers, but when I do it is usually James Patterson, John Sanford, or Joseph Garber, all masters of the craft. However, being one of the select who now belong to the Camel Press family, I had occasion to read a book call Blood, by Jack Remick.
Much to my chagrin, I have come to realize that although I LOVE this book, I had not bothered to post a review! Boy, do I feel like a prize idiot, considering that I write reviews on this very blog and on Slacker Heroes. I can only apologize to the talented Jack Remick for not writing one earlier.
Some would call Hank Mitchell a sociopathic killer, some would call him an unfeeling automaton who kills merely for money. Some might say that he is a damaged human being seeking an elusive something to complete his personal voyage of discovery. I happen to think that all these descriptions apply. As a protagonist, Mitchell is certainly not one you root for day one, but with surgical precision, deft wordsmithing, and blistering heat, Remick creates in Mitchell a bizarre anti-hero you can’t help but feel connected to.
The story bursts forth with uncompromising passion and honesty to wrap the reader in the blanket of Mitchell’s strange little world. Now, I am not one to empathize with efficient, cold-blooded killers. Not my cup of tea, but there are exceptions to every rule and this one is mine. At the heart of this story it is sad and poignant, wild and paranoid and even downright surreal, but no matter how odd, how bizarre, it grips the reader with furious tension.
I am not going to tell you more about the book than I already have. I will leave the joy of discovery for you. What I will say is be prepared for a gamut of emotions as you read. There are very few books that, when I finish, I say ‘wow’.